by J. B. Turner
‘Call the police! They’re Richmond’s men.’
‘The windows are locked. We’re safe.’
Under the bright exterior security lights, Deborah got a better view of them. Each had a boxer’s nose, a thick neck and raven-hued eyes. She felt herself begin to shake.
This was not a social visit. Damn. Why hadn’t she listened to Simon and Brett?
The men smiled through the glass as if they were dinner guests who’d arrived late. Dressed in chinos and sneakers and Hawaiian shirts, they looked like tourists. But the way they expertly snapped the locks off the French windows told another story.
Rose O’Neill gave a high-pitched scream. It was like one of her nightmares.
The smaller of the two men was grinning from ear to ear. He had no teeth. He took a small glass bottle out of one of his pockets, a white handkerchief from the other.
Deborah stood transfixed and watched as he poured some of the liquid into the hankie. Suddenly he lunged forward and pressed the sweet-smelling cotton over her nose.
31
After a sleepless night, Sam Goldberg stared out of his rain-streaked office window as a thunderstorm lashed Miami. It was important not to panic. But he had to face facts: Deborah was missing, almost certainly after being kidnapped by Richmond’s men.
According to a statement that Rose O’Neill had given to police from her hospital bed where she was being treated for acute shock, two men had broken into her house and taken Deborah away.
Goldberg blamed himself. He should have pulled her off the story. But he had imagined that Senator O’Neill would instruct Richmond and his heavies to cool it. And he could not understand why the Feds had not informed him that Deborah had gone off on her own.
Maybe Donovan was right. Maybe he had assigned Deborah the Craig interview because he felt something for her. Maybe his heart had been ruling his head.
There was a knock at the door, and Frank Callaghan, the national news editor and a close confidant of Goldberg’s, came in. ‘Sam, I’ve got William Craig on the line. I tried to stall him, but he says he wants to speak to the man in charge.’
‘How did he find out about this?’
‘I’ve no idea. I filled him in on what we know.’
‘And he’s phoning from death row?’
‘Yeah. Able to make social calls, apparently.’
‘Put him through.’
Callaghan left the room and Goldberg stared at his phone, waiting for it to ring. When he picked up, Craig’s voice was low, as if he was afraid of being overheard by the guards.
‘I believe you’re the man responsible for this—is that correct?’
‘I guess so,’ Goldberg replied.
‘Your colleague Mr Callaghan has informed me that Deborah Jones was kidnapped late last night. Is that true?’
Goldberg’s heart was pounding. ‘I regret—’
‘What the hell happened?’
Goldberg decided he had to be straight with Craig. ‘She’s been in protective custody for the last week, following threats made to her. Unfortunately, she left that protective custody yesterday and hasn’t been seen since she arrived at the Naples home of Senator O’Neill, where she managed to gain an interview with O’Neill’s wife.’
‘And she was kidnapped from there?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what are you doing about it?’
‘We’re using all our resources to track her down. So are the FBI and the Naples police.’
‘How long has she been missing?’
‘Nine, perhaps twelve hours.’ Goldberg winced as he said it.
‘Christ, they could’ve done anything to her. That girl’s put her life on the line for me and your paper.’
Goldberg gave a nervous cough.
‘How did the men enter the house and leave?’ Craig asked.
‘Police believe through some French doors which opened out onto a deck beside the water. They left in some kind of speedboat.’
‘And they did this without any camera catching them?’
‘Apparently.’
‘This has all the hallmarks of an inside job. Had to be. Someone within that community… Tell me, are there other houses which overlook O’Neill’s place?’
‘I believe one house is in the line of sight, but that’s more than half a mile away. Unless someone’s got great eyesight.’
‘Or high-specification binoculars.’
Goldberg felt like a complete amateur. He hadn’t thought of that.
‘They could’ve spotted Deborah as soon as she set foot in that house or at the entrance to the community. Maybe the security guards alerted them. I think Deborah Jones is being held there. It’s perfect. No one can enter or leave, apart from the residents, right?’
‘Mr Craig, I don’t want to rain on your ideas, but the homes are occupied by some of Florida’s richest people.’
‘I don’t give a damn. She’s there somewhere. And the police should be conducting house-to-house searches.’
‘They won’t want to upset the residents.’
‘What sort of police force do you have here in Florida, Mr Goldberg? When I was heading up missing-person investigations, your chief of police was probably still in nappies. I know what I’m talking about.’
Goldberg didn’t doubt it.
32
Deborah awoke to a blinding white light shining right in her face. As her eyes slowly adjusted, she found herself staring back at her reflection in a huge rectangular mirror. She was tied to a wooden chair by ropes, hands behind her back, feet and legs restrained by duct tape.
Was it a one-way mirror she was staring at?
She heard the slow drip of water. She counted. Once every ten seconds. The air was damp and she remembered coming to briefly, before being led down a flight of wooden stairs.
How long ago had that been?
She tried to move her hands and legs, but the tape held her tight. She examined her surroundings—industrial white-painted walls, like a loft-style apartment. The odd rust-colored patch on the white floor made her wonder if it could be blood splatter.
Deborah faced the mirror and squinted into the light. ‘Where am I?’ Her voice echoed. ‘Please tell me what you want.’
An electronically distorted man’s voice replied, ‘All in good time.’
Deborah closed her eyes. The light was too painful. Her mouth felt dry. The room was sticky and warm. No air conditioning. She felt herself drifting into sleep when a door creaked open.
Deborah’s blood ran cold.
A small black silhouette of a figure emerged from the far corner of the room, and walked towards her in a slow and deliberate manner.
She looked up through her heavy eyes and recognized the thin-faced features of John Richmond. He wore the same shades he’d worn at the Ritz. He stopped in front of her, illuminated from behind by the powerful lights.
‘You’ve crossed the line once too often.’ His voice was as tight as piano wire.
Deborah’s head dropped and she began to sob. She could never have envisioned her life would end like this. Pitiful. Crying in front of a madman.
Richmond signaled through the glass and a couple of men emerged. One taped up Deborah’s mouth.
She screamed, but only a gurgling sound came out. She wondered how her daddy would cope with her death. She wanted to say so much to him, now that they’d made up. Her thoughts turned to Craig. And waves of sadness washed over her. Despite all the revelations, nothing had changed.
Richmond pulled a gun from his waistband. ‘I think we’re gonna stop your suffering right here and now.’ He pulled out a penknife from his back pocket. It glittered in a fierce spotlight. ‘Just wanted you to know that I’ll meet you in the next life. You’ll never be able to escape me.’
The Lord is my Shepherd, Deborah recited in her head. The Lord is my Shepherd.
There was the sound of a door opening.
She squinte
d against the light, tears running down her face. Standing, hands behind his back, at the far end of the room was the silhouette of another man. He watched Deborah in silence for a few moments. Then Richmond stepped aside…
The man moved closer to her and she closed her eyes.
33
Sam Goldberg paced his office as the national desk editor, Frank Callaghan, sat and watched him in silence. Sometimes, at a paper like the Herald, the difference between a friend and a colleague was a chasm. Every organization had its share of yes-men prepared to agree that every move the man in charge made was a good idea.
Callaghan was different. Not only a good sounding board, but someone whose views Goldberg could trust implicitly.
Goldberg slumped back down in his seat, running over in his head what he’d done. He had followed Craig’s instructions and called the Naples police and the FBI. Both were less than enthusiastic about barging into the gated community, especially after a tip-off from a convicted killer. They had promised to keep in touch if there were any developments.
To try and alleviate the burning sensation in his stomach, Goldberg popped a couple of Zantac and washed them down with a swig from a bottle of water that was lying on his desk.
‘Sam, calm down,’ Frank said. ‘You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack over this. Let’s just sit back and hope for the best.’
Goldberg looked at Frank who took everything in his stride. He was a man who ate healthily, drank moderately and even found time to tend his garden or do jobs around the house. By contrast, Goldberg was tied in knots—thinking of stories, thinking of deadlines, thinking of his dead wife, and now thinking of a girl he’d allowed to pursue a most dangerous story. He wasn’t good at relaxing, unless a drink was at hand.
There was a knock at the door and Larry Coen walked in, his face like stone. He handed Goldberg a picture. ‘Thought you’d want to see this…’ It was a ten-by-twelve-inch color photo of Senator Jack O’Neill and Governor Wilkinson looking relaxed on a sandy beach, palm trees and turquoise sea in the background.
Goldberg said, ‘What’s the significance?’
‘It was taken on the Fourth of July 1998 and appeared in the Miami Herald the following day.’ He showed the photograph to Callaghan as well. ‘It shows the governor and the senator in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, as part of a trade delegation.’ Coen then produced another photo that looked almost identical, except that there was a third man in it.
Goldberg leaned closer and screwed up his eyes. ‘Dennis Morrison? What’s the head of the Miami Beach police doing in Puerto Vallarta on a trade delegation?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Where did this come from?’
‘It was taken by a photo agency in Fort Lauderdale, hired especially by the governor’s people. I asked to see the original, just as a matter of routine, and what do you know, the whole picture emerges.’
‘The three of them on holiday?’
‘It was a fact-finding trade mission. Tony Marino, the owner of the agency, was told to keep the police chief out of the official photo. So it was cropped before it was sent down the wire to us.’
‘How come?’
‘Apparently the real photo, showing the three of them together, was a memento. They each ordered several copies.’
Goldberg leaned back in his seat. ‘Good work, Larry.’
‘Something else we’re working on—when Deborah was in Arkansas with the FBI she e-mailed me, asking for the details of how much Senator O’Neill had paid for the house, that kind of thing.’
‘And?’
‘We started doing some checks. Turns out the O’Neill house is not owned by the senator.’
‘You’ve lost me, Larry.’
‘The house is owned by Bensonhurst Inc. Wanna know the majority shareholder?’ Coen paused for a moment. ‘John Richmond, alias Paulie Fachetti.’
‘The Mob owns a senator’s house?’ Goldberg was incredulous.
‘It doesn’t end there. Guess what else Bensonhurst Inc owns?’
Goldberg shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The golf course?’
‘Every goddamn mansion within that community. Sixty-three huge houses, whose combined worth is conservatively estimated at one and a half billion dollars.’
‘Frank, get on the phone to the Naples police and the Feds.’ Goldberg looked at Coen. ‘Write it up, Larry. All you’ve got. This could be the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for.’
The phone rang and Goldberg picked up as Coen left the room.
‘Mr Goldberg?’ It was a man’s voice. ‘Lance Armstrong, FBI headquarters.’
‘Any word on our girl?’
‘She’s been found.’ Goldberg felt the tension knots in his neck begin to subside.
‘Is she okay? Is she alive?’
‘Thank God, yes. But she’s in deep shock, otherwise just a few cuts and bruises. We found her in a basement cell at the house of one of the senator’s neighbors.’
Craig had been right after all. ‘You wanna tell me who?’
‘Sorry, Mr Goldberg, I can’t disclose that at this stage.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Receiving medical attention at a military hospital. She’s also helping us with our inquiries. We’ll be in touch again soon.’ And Armstrong hung up.
Callaghan got up and patted Goldberg on the shoulder. ‘We got lucky, Sam.’
34
The days that followed took Deborah into the darkest recesses of her mind. She had been picked up by four FBI agents—including Brett—in an SUV that had powered away from the front lawn of the huge home where she’d been kept. She had then been driven at high speed to Naples airport where she had boarded a Cessna aircraft. Sedated, she was flown up to the Quantico marine base in Virginia.
A functional dormitory room within the main training complex at the FBI Academy was her home as a procession of military psychiatrists and psychologists got to work on her. She was quickly diagnosed as suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, primarily caused by her rape but compounded by her recent imprisonment.
On the first night Deborah lay awake on her single bed, dressed in her FBI tracksuit, listening to the bedside clock ticking like a time bomb towards the execution deadline… Images of John Richmond’s gaunt features flooded her mind along with other frightening memories. The sickening aroma of chloroform. And the sound of breaking glass as a SWAT team had smashed their way into the basement.
She wanted to switch off time, leaving herself in a timeless void, unable and unwilling to deal with the anxiety that was swamping her.
She kept the light on all night, terrified that the darkness and the nightmares would return.
The sound of laughter echoed in the corridor. Rookie FBI girls, she guessed, returning from the shooting range. Her eyes were growing heavy and, as she felt herself falling into a bottomless pit, she thought she heard the guffaws of men.
Deborah awoke screaming in the dead of night, imagining that someone was turning the handle of her locked door. Two female FBI agents were assigned to stay with her thereafter.
Stress-inoculation training, a behavioral treatment to tackle her fear and anxiety symptoms, was given to her by a Georgetown professor of psychiatry who taught at the Academy. She was told how fear develops as a learned response to trauma. And she was instructed on how to identify cues in the environment—all-male environments—that triggered the fear. Cognitive relaxation exercises helped her to relax her muscles. Cognitive Processing Therapy, where she had to write about what the rape meant to her, was the hardest to endure. As she wrote down her thoughts, she had to relive the dreadful memories of San Francisco again.
• • •
The first thing I remember was being aware that I was being carried out of that bar against my will but unable to do anything about it. I tried to struggle, but I couldn’t move. The Rohypnol had paralyzed me, if indeed that was what they’d used to
spike my Long Island Iced Tea. Faces of the boys next door became the faces of evil. It was their very ordinariness and boy-next-door quality that was so scary. They didn’t look evil.
When I came to, watching the spectacle on a small TV, it was like I’d gone mad. Entering me from behind, one after the other, they screamed and laughed. They wanted to degrade me. Why? They had obviously planned it. Was I their victim all along?
Were there others? Humiliation and carnal gratification were their goal. And they succeeded. It was all a power trip. Their power over a defenseless young woman. The flashbacks over the coming months were as bad. I wish I had had the guts to confront them in court, rather than doing what my father wanted and hushing things up. I wish I had had the guts to track them down and kill them. I wish Brett hadn’t left. But most of all, I wish I was someone else.
• • •
Daytime was okay. People were around her, kind faces. But when the sun set on the autumn foliage encircling Quantico, Deborah felt herself regressing. The lights stayed on, the seconds ticked by. When morning came, the demons were banished again until darkness fell. She had to endure six more terrible nights, seeing shadows in the corner of her room, hearing sounds under her bed.
Deborah knew that the experts were trying to piece her back together again. They encouraged her to take long walks in the acres of woodland around the base, accompanied at all times by the two female FBI agents—Suzie and Pam. But she didn’t want to confront demons any more. She would have preferred to be back at work, or back in her condo, trying to help Craig.
By the end of the first week Deborah was sleeping better, although she did suffer an embarrassing anxiety attack in the middle of one day. She freaked out when watching DEA agents training in Hogan’s Alley, a mock city on site with façades replicating a typical small town. She thought she saw Richmond watching her from a window, but it was only an old instructor, wearing shades.
Towards the end of the second week she was feeling stronger.
Her mind was sharper and her body more relaxed. When she told her handlers within the Behavioral Science Unit of her need to get back, they seemed dismayed. This would be the second time she’d walked out on the Feds, despite their protection and help. The Quantico psychiatrists wanted her to take a whole year off, if possible, to recover. They said her mind was in a fragile state and she could relapse at any time. Medication and rest should be the order of the day. But they also admitted that one of the reasons they were keen for her to stay was that they wanted her recollections of her ordeal at the hands of John Richmond to help them build a case against him.
